The Maskmaker
by My Quiet Riot
Summary: Cause Of Death's original 'Volume One: The Maskmaker' in detailed fanfiction form. Rated 'T' because Cause Of Death.
1. Prologue

**Hello again, Deathicated! I know I'm supposed to be working on wrapping up _Beginning Again_, and I am, I promise! But I've been dying to re-write Volume One forever, so I figured I'd do it now. This is going to be _Volume One: The Maskmaker_ re-written in first-person (present tense) and told with a lot more detail. When I say first person, I mean it's from the view point of whoever it is when the game says 'You are now [name].' So if it says 'You are now Mal Fallon', it's Mal's POV. I'll use the lines from the actual game for the most part, though I'll add some things for character development. This will be split up into the chapters in the game, so there will be seven, including this prologue (I think). Oh, and the dialogue will be written according to the 'correct' choice that gets you points in the game. If it's one of the choices that doesn't affect your points, I'll just pick which I like best. c:**

**Alright, enough of my rambling; enjoy, and please tell me what you think! C:**

* * *

Prologue - Sophie Patterson

I wake up somewhere cold and dark. Struggling to open my eyes, I slowly try to sit up. I'm lying in a dingy, moldy-smelling corner. My pale wrists are bound, and my head throbs.

_Nnh... My head... What... What happened?_ _Where am I?_

I look frantically around, but am only met by darkness as my eyes struggle to adjust to the only source of light in the room: a long, yellow bulb that glows eerily. I try to remember what happened, but to no avail.

_The... The last thing I remember is the club... How did I get here?_

Doing my best to ignore the pain, I turn my head slightly to find a masked man standing over a workbench across the room. His back is to me, but I can still see him laying tools out. Methodically, as if he's done this many times before, he lays out a scalpel, a palette knife, and a bucket.

_Oh my God... Oh my God! He has a knife!_

I take several deep breaths to calm myself down.

_Calm down, Sophie. Don't make things worse. Look for a way out of here; there has to be a way out._

I look behind me and am barely able to make out a narrow flight of stairs leading up to who-knows-where.

Though my first instinct tells me to scream for help, alerting the masked man that I'm conscious doesn't seem wise. Instead, I use the corner of the wall as a brace and rise unsteadily to my feet.

_I need to be quiet... I can make it out of here..._

I start to slowly creep along the wall, taking small, careful steps to avoid being heard. Just as I step onto the first stair, the wooden planks beneath me creak loudly. I wince as the masked man whips around, sees me, and charges. With a frantic scream, I race blindly up the stairs and out into the air above... only to find myself on the deck of a rickety old boat. I recognize the distant shores as those of Alcatraz Island.

_Oh my God..._

I wildly rush around on deck, searching desperately for a means of escape. I look down into the dark water, and cold ocean spray stings my cheeks. My heart sinks and panic starts to set in.

_No... No!_

I turn as the masked man emerges from below deck, menacingly holding a syringe in his right hand. I shriek and turn to run before suddenly remembering I am on a ship. Harsh, choppy waves pound against the hull, and my heart sinks. I have a feeling I won't be getting out of this alive. I think for a moment about threatening him, but what threat am I to him? I'm a teenaged girl, and he appears to be a full-grown man. So instead of threatening, I do the only other thing I can think of.

"Please don't hurt me!" I beg, falling to my knees. "Please... Please just let me go. I'll give you whatever you want."

The masked man walks over to me, syringe still in hand. "Yes," he murmurs in a low, sinister voice. "Yes, you will."

I am about to ask him what he means when he suddenly grabs my arm. Jerking violently, he pulls me to my feet. I feel my shoulder pop out of place, and pain sears through the area.

"Aaagh!" I shriek, biting back tears of pain.

"No more running," he seethes. With surgical precision, the man sticks the syringe into my neck, dosing me with an unknown substance. The prick of the needle and substance going in stings.

"Ahh!" I shriek again, wincing in pain.

_What did he just give me? I feel... Dizzy..._

The world around me suddenly blurs, and my body goes limp. I try to move, but it's useless; whatever he gave me included a paralysis-inducer. The man now picks me up and carries me bridal-style back below deck. Just before the door slams shut, I take one last desperate glance at the waves and sky; I have a feeling that this is the last time I'll ever see them.

The man lays me down on the workbench, then turns towards his tools. I try to beg him again to let me go, but no words come out. I know it's too late.

"Hhhh..." I murmur weakly, unable to form a coherent sentence.

"Don't worry," he says softly. "I'm not going to hurt you." He turns briefly and dips the palette knife into the bucket. He moves it to my face and, to my sheer horror, begins applying layers of what I recognize as plaster to my face.

"I'm just going to show the world your true face," he finishes. He continues to work, covering my mouth and nostrils in several more swipes, leaving my eyes apparently for last.

My lungs soon burn for air, and my vision begins to blur. I struggle, but I can't move; my limbs are completely useless. I try one last pleading time to speak, but the plaster is hardened and my airways are obstructed.

This is it; I'm going to die here. I think of my mother, father, and sister; all of which I'm leaving behind. I think of my friends and boyfriend, and how I wish I could say good bye and I love you, just one last time.

But I can't; it's too late now.

With one last defeated look around, I give in to the darkness, letting it swallow me whole.


	2. Chapter 1: Washed Up

**Hey, guys! Thanks for the interest in my re-write of _The Maskmaker_! I'm having a lot of fun writing it, so whether you like it or not, I'm continuing. (: I wanna do it with all the volumes, but unfortunately, I don't have iTunes money to go and buy them all. :c But anywho, thanks for the reviews, and I hope you guys like this first chapter! (:**

* * *

Chapter One - Mal Fallon

I sit in one of those back-alley bars in the Mission District playing a heads-up game of Texas Hold 'Em. Diego, an old friend of mine, sits across from me.

"Come on, Diego, what are you waiting for? I don't have all day..." I suppress a smirk as the heavily-tattooed man in front of me twitches nervously.

"I'm thinking, man, I'm thinking..." he mutters with a scowl.

While I wait for him to make a move, I glance up at a blaring TV.

"The serial killer dubbed 'The Maskmaker' continues to elude and capture, frustrating law enforcement..." the television thunders.

"Hey, you hear about this Maskmaker guy, Mal?" Diego asks me. "Killing girls, making masks out of their faces. Pretty sick, huh?"

I suppress an agitated sigh.

"How about you leave the detective work to me, Diego, and focus on the game? You gonna make a bet or not?" Diego glances down at his two cards, then beams.

"Sure," he says with a grin. "I'm in for thirty."

_Let's see... We're at the final round of betting, and I've got nothing but a pair of fours... But my gut says Diego's got even less._

Deciding to bluff, I say, "I raise a hundred."

"What?" he exclaims, clearly surprised. "No, man, you... You don't got it. No way you got anything."

"Then call it, Diego," I coax with a sly grin. I know Diego; he talks big, but he rarely follows through. "Put your money where your mouth is."

"Ahhh, screw this, man," he growls, giving up. "I fold."

With a smug smile, I reach across the table and gather the pot.

"Cheer up," I laugh. One of these days, your luck will turn. Diego mutters to himself and begins to shuffle the cards, when I see a familiar face approach our table.

"Mal," greets my best friend, Ken Greene.

"Well, this is unexpected," I say. "What are you doing here, Ken?"

"I had a feeling I'd find you here," he mutters with barely-suppressed disgust. "Gambling away with these other shady, unkempt lowlives..."

Diego glares at him, but I know Ken's joking.

"Hey, I might be shady and a lowlife," I laugh, "But I'm very well-kempt."

Ken laughs, too. "Anyway," he continues, serious again. "The Captain sent me to find you. You're needed on a case."

"I thought I was suspended until the end of next week..." I say with surprise.

"You were," he corrected. "Now you're not. Let's go."

I stand to follow him when Diego interrupts.

"You got suspended?" he questions with wide eyes. "What'd you do?"

I hesitate to tell him, but decide to, anyways.

"I punched the mayor's son," I confess with a sheepish grin.

"Damn!" Diego exclaims with an impressed smile. "That's hardcore!"

"'Hardcore' was what he did to the girl he assaulted," I correct. "I just helped him understand the error of his ways."

"As much fun as it is to rehash your greatest hits," Ken interrupts, "We gotta roll out." I nod and pocket the last of the money.

"What's the big rush, anyway?" I inquire.

Ken pulls his keys from his pocket before continuing. "Captain Yeong wants you to head up the Maskmaker Task Force," he tells me.

_Wait, what? Maskmaker Task Force?_

"Since when is there a Maskmaker Task Force?" I ask, slightly bewildered.

"Since we just found another victim," he sighs with a hint of sadness. "Let's go."

Complying, I get up from my seat and pull on my coat. I exchange quick good-bye's with Diego before following Ken towards the door.

"Oh, and by the way..." he starts.

"Yeah?" I say.

"It's good to have you back, Mal," he finishes with the warm, friendly smile that I'm so used to.

"Thanks," I smile back.

* * *

Half an hour later, I am driving down the busy streets of San Francisco. My superior, Captain Maria Yeong, sits in the passenger seat. Though I'm happy to be back on duty, I'm still unsure as to why this case was re-assigned to me.

"I gotta tell you, Captain," I start, "As much as I'm glad to be back on the beat, I thought Detective Blackwell was handling the Maskmaker case..."

"He was," she replies, "When the victims were all prostitutes. This new one's a college girl. When the press gets word of this, the public is going to go crazy... And whether I like it or not, you're the best detective I've got."

"I appreciate it," I say with a smile, though I'm slightly surprised.

"That doesn't mean you're off the hook! I want this one by-the-book, Detective," she continues sternly. "You understand that? By-the-book."

"You've got my word," I promise sincerely. "I won't let you down, Captain."

"Good," she says approvingly, the frown disappearing from her face. "And you might want to let your wife know you'll be home late."

My heart skips a beat and drops a little at the mention of Sandra, my ex-wife. We were high school sweethearts, but marriage just... didn't work out, I guess. She left me a few months ago, but I will admit I saw it coming. It still hurts, but I can't say I never expected it.

"Yeah," I say uncomfortably. "I'll, uh, give her a call in a bit. First, why don't you give me the basics on the case?"

"This is the third murder matching this M.O. we've had in three months," she informs me. "The victims were young women, age twenty-to-twenty-five, who washed up dead near the waterfront. All of them had plaster masks molded to their faces. We can't definitively ID this latest victim until we run her DNA against a comparison sample, but the student ID in her wallet says she's Sophie Patterson of Stanford University. I've already called the tech team. They'll fill you in on this victim when we get there." She pauses for a moment. "Any questions?" she asks.

"I know what I need to know," I say determinedly. "I'll catch this guy, Captain."

"I hope you can, Detective... Before he kills again."

* * *

After another few minutes of driving, I stop the car near a series of old, run-down docks, just outside of Fisherman's Wharf. I step out of the car and a cold breeze blows over me, involuntarily causing a shiver. I follow Captain Yeong to the all-too-familiar sight of a proximity roped off by police tape. A small huddle of grim-faced officers bustle around the scene, each doing their jobs. I push past several other officers and make my way to the center of the circle. There I am greeted by the body of a young, well-dressed girl with pale skin. A firm, white plaster mask is molded around her face.

"Ah, hell..." I murmur sadly under my breath.

"The body was found by some fishermen coming back from their morning trawl," Captain reports grimly. "Judging by the look of her, she spent the night in the water."

_If she spent the night in the water... How did the plaster mask stay on?_

"She was dumped in the ocean... But the mask stayed on?" I ask.

"Believe me," she almost-scoffs, "We're having a hell of a time getting it off. Our killer knew what he was doing." I nod formidably before moving to take a step further towards the victim's corpse. As I'm nearing it, a young woman in a dark suit steps out from the circle, crouches near the dead girl, and snaps a picture of the body. Surprised, I come to an abrupt halt to avoid tripping over her.

"Miss, please back away from the crime scene," I command politely. The woman looks up from the corpse and meets my eye. I'm immediately struck by the fact that she's extremely pretty, but her brown eyes are hard and almost cold.

"I would," she starts, "But that would make doing my job more difficult." She stands, reaches into her pocket, and flashes me an official FBI identification card.

"You're with the FBI?" I ask in surprise. I wasn't aware we were calling in any feds, s0 I want to make sure she's actually supposed to be here.

"You've got a serial killer on your hands," she says with a matter-of-fact, almost-condescending tone, "And the Bureau sent me to assist with profiling. Are we going to have a problem?"

I look to Captain Yeong. "Captain?"

"I didn't expect them to get someone out here so fast," she admits, "But yes, I heard we'd be receiving assistance from the Bureau." She steps in a bit closer so she's speaking into my ear, too quiet for the other woman to hear.

"Do me a favor and play nice," she tells me sternly.

"I'll try not to bite," I say with a sly smile. Captain nods at me, then turns to speak to someone else. I turn back to the woman.

"I'm Detective Mal Fallon," I introduce, extending my hand politely.

"Special Agent Natara Williams," she greets back, firmly shaking my hand.

"Can I call you Nat?" I ask jokingly, trying to see if her overly-serious demeanor could be broken.

"You can call me Special Agent Williams," she snaps back with a scowl. I think I see something flash in her eyes, but I can't tell what it is.

"Well, Special Agent Williams," I reply awkwardly, "Mind if I examine the crime scene?"

"By my guest," she responds tepidly, stepping aside. I nod curtly as I take a step forward and crouch down beside the body. Special Agent Williams kneels beside me, giving a respectable distance between us.

"Looks like she's been roughed up a bit," I observe, more to myself than anyone else.

"And her shoulder's dislocated," Williams adds. "This girl was dragged by the arm, hard."

I thought for a moment, recalling the other victims thus far. "Something went wrong here. This girl fought back. There was a struggle."

"But besides that," she continues, "There was no other trauma. No bruising around her neck. Even her clothes are neat. No rips or tears, no obvious signs of struggle. Unless our killer meticulously dressed her, I'm betting we get no evidence of sexual assault, either." She pauses to think for a few moments, seemingly concentrating hard on something.

"Hmm... That's interesting. This murder is different from the previous victims," she notes.

"You're right," I say, suddenly realizing what was different. "The cause of death is different."

"Yes, that's absolutely correct," she confirms.

"The other victims were strangled, but this girl has no bruising on her neck," I report, pointing to the girl's thin neck. Now, however, another question invades my mind. "So how'd she die?"

"Drowning, maybe?" she guesses.

Suddenly, Eric Mills, our lab technician, approaches us.

"No," he interjects expertly. "She couldn't have drowned. There's no fluid in her lungs. The victim was dead before her body entered the water."

Special Agent Williams glances up at Eric questioningly. I stand, and she follows suit.

"Special Agent Williams," I begin, "I'd like you to meet Eric Mills, our forensic technician." She nods and extends her hand. Eric shakes it, offering a polite smile.

"Well, if she didn't die from drowning or strangulation," she continues as if we weren't interrupted, "What killed her?"

"Look here," Eric says, crouching down and pointing to the victim's neck. We crouch once again, each on either side of Eric. "See that tiny welt? This indicated the victim received an injection just prior to her death..."

"The chloroform?" Agent Williams asks in speculation.

"No, if this victim is like the others, that was administered via a cloth over the mouth." Eric pauses, lightly holding back the victim's bright red hair to reveal a purple-y welt. "Look at the petechial hemorrhaging behind the ears. That suggests that her airways were obstructed."

I pause once again, processing what Eric just said. "Son of a–" I start, quickly cutting myself off. I try not to cuss in front of people I've just met. "He killed her with the mask," I conclude with a disgusted scowl.

"Come again?" Eric says, seeming taken-aback.

I reach over and gently move the girl's head to the side, lightly touching the edge of the mask and feeling for any signs of the plaster giving.

"Look how tightly it's plastered onto her skin," I relay, retracting my hand from her head. "My guess is he drugged her, plastered over her face, and let her suffocate to death."

"Then this crime is even more different than I thought," Special Agent comments stonily. "He made the mask while his victim was alive instead of doing it after she died."

"He's evolving,"

"Exactly. And when a killer this precise, this methodical, this disciplined, still has room to evolve–" she starts.

"–That's trouble." I finish.

"Yeah," she confirms again. "A lot of it."

Suddenly I hear a voice from behind me, calling my name.

"Hey! Mal!" I whip around to meet the face of a fellow cop, Officer William Rye. "You might want to see this!" he calls, hurrying up to us. I turn towards him as he shines a black light over the victim's body.

"Look what I found on her arm!" he exclaims. He shifts the light to focus on the inside of the girl's wrists, revealing a stamped circle of Chinese zodiac animals. I crouch down to examine it closer, when recognition dawns on me.

"Wait a minute, I know that stamp," I remark. "That's from the Zen Club in Chinatown. It's an upscale bar and karaoke club. I reach out and gently lift the girl's arm so I can take a closer look. "Given how crisp the image is, I'm guessing she was there last night."

"Someone there must have seen something," Agent Williams speculates.

"Well, Special Agent Williams, looks like we just got a lead." She nods and stands, and we take turns thanking Officer Rye.

"Let's go," I say, motioning to her to follow me to my car. I get in the driver's seat, followed by Agent Williams in the passenger's seat. As we drive down towards Chinatown, we sit in a stony silence as she wordlessly goes over her paperwork. The silence is starting to irritate me, so I disrupt it.

"Not much of a talker, are you?" I speculate with a humored grin. "Too busy profiling?" She looks up from her papers and glares at me.

"As a matter of fact, Detective, I am," she replies in a hard voice, eyes still cold. I can't help but smirk at her workaholic-type attitude. "And I'm not sure I understand why you find that so amusing," she growls.

"It's just..." I pause. I suddenly feel like trying to agitate her slightly. "Come on. That pop psych stuff probably sounded great in a classroom at Quantico," I say, "But it's not going to find us this killer."

"Oh really?" she taunts sarcastically. "And what _is _going to help us find this killer, Detective?"

"Real police-work," I state. "Hitting the street. Grilling witnesses. Following my gut."

"Oh, please," she scoffs melodramatically. "Spare me the 'tough cop' routine, will you? I've worked with enough detectives to know it's all an act."

_Well, she's kind of a bitch_.

"And you think you know me that well?" I ask. "Have you profiled me?"

"As a matter of fact, Detective," she utters again, "I have. Would you like to hear it?"

"Sure," I say, shrugging my shoulders. _Let's hear it, Miss Smarty-Pants._

"Your name is Mal Fallon," she begins professionally. "I'm guessing that you're a descendant of Malachi Fallon, first Chief of Police of the San Francisco Police Department?"

"So you've read a history book," I dismiss passively.

"So police work runs in your blood," she starts again, "But your response to me suggests an innate distrust of women. Absent mother, I imagine?"

I nearly choke on my own saliva. I will admit, I'm slightly taken-aback. I'd usually come up with some snappy comeback, but her statement hit just a little too close to home. So instead, I glance over at her, scowl, and turn back to the road.

"I'm guessing you had a rebellious youth?" she inquires next. I glance over at her again, but say nothing. "Didn't play by the rules? Maybe even a little legal trouble?"

I say nothing, eyes on the road. The truth is, her profiling is completely accurate, but I'm not about to tell her so.

"And all of this culminates in a personality type that serves authority without fully respecting it," she concludes matter-of-factly. "How'd I do?"

I glance over at her again, forcing myself to remain civil. Though I know she has no reason to have knowledge of my mother, I still don't like her being talked about like that.

"Pretty good," I reply with another shrug, "But you're wrong about my mother. The woman was a saint." I'm not sure what, but something about her makes me want to tell her things I haven't even told Ken yet, but I have to remind myself that I met the woman no more than half an hour ago.

"Now how about I tell you what my gut thinks of you?" I ask, changing the subject to avoid further questioning. Something about her seems... off. I'm no profiler, but the coldness in her eyes suggest a fall-out of some sort. Something tells me she wasn't here on her own devices.

"Be my guest!" she chimes with a smug smirk.

_She says 'as a matter of fact' and 'be my guest' a lot. _

"Well," I begin, "If I'm not mistaken, the local FBI branch is working the Flores Cartel, their biggest organized crime takedown in fifteen years... And yet you're stuck helping us with this."

"What are you implying?" she inquires brusquely, her eyes narrowing.

"You must have pissed someone off," I proclaimed confidently. I glance over at her to see her frosty demeanor falter for a split second, before a scowl is own her face again. _Ha! Nailed it._

I grin smugly. "I'm right, aren't I? You're on crap detail."

"I'll admit I'm not on the best of terms with my District Chief," she allows after a short pause.

"I knew i!" I exclaim. I give her another smug look, and she rolls her eyes. "What'd you do? Blow a major lead? Get too cozy with a reporter? Did you shoot someone you weren't supposed to?" I look over at her again to see her expression falter once again, and several emotions flash through her eyes. They are gone just as quickly as they came, though, so I can't tell what they are. By the way her eyes grow even colder, though I know I hit a nerve.

"How about you leave the profiling to me, Detective?" she snaps.

"All right, all right," I say with a slight grin, deciding to ease up. "Just keep your gun holstered around me, okay?"

"I make no promises," she announces.

Ten minutes later, Agent Williams and I approach the Zen Club. The glowing neon letters greet us as we walk up to the door.

"So how'd you recognize the stamp, anyway?" she inquires, turning to me. "You don't seem like the karaoke type."

"You're only saying that because you haven't heard me sing," I say. I actually have a pretty decent voice; a childhood of church choir does that to you.

"Oh really?" she says, actually seeming genuinely surprised and interested. In the past hour, that's the first time I've seen her with some other emotion other then... well, emotionless.

"That and I know the owner here. Shady guy, but he helped us out with an investigation a while back." She nods, then pulls open the door and strides in. I step in behind her and my eyes struggle to adjust to the dim lighting. It's still before business hours, but some of the staff are bustling around setting up.

"Ah, crap, it's you," mutters Milo, the club owner, from behind the counter. "Listen, I already told the last cop, I had no idea those kids were under twenty-one."

"Relax, Milo," I say. "This isn't about your liquor license. There's been a homicide. We have reason to believe the victim was here last night."

"We want to know about a redhead in her twenties, with a tattoo of a constellation on her lower-back," Agent Williams interjects, adding information to the conversation. "That ring any bells?"

"Yeah, yeah, I know the one," Milo recalls, face lighting up slightly. "She's a regular." His face drops when he seems to realize that the girl would no longer be present. "Hey, wait... Is she... You know..."

"Just tell us," I press, ignoring his sort-of question. "Was she with anyone?"

"Yeah, yeah," he answers distractedly. "She was talking to Jared."

I think for a moment, but the name doesn't sounds familiar. "Jared?"

Milo jerks his thumb in the direction of a young, muscular man standing behind the bar table, wiping down shot glasses.

"Hey, Jared!" he calls out. "Some cops here to see you."

Jared's head shoots up. "Oh, uh, just give me one sec..."

I narrow my eyes suspiciously. He steps away from the bar, tosses down his towel, turns... And bolts straight through the kitchen door, running away from us.

"Damn!" I yell. "He's getting away!" I take a running start, jump the bar, and jerk the handle of the door Jared just disappeared through. I pull, but it appears to be locked. I step back and kick the door in. It flies off its hinges in a spray of wooden splinters.

We both rush through, ignoring Milo's shout from behind us. "Hey! You'd better be paying for that!"

Ahead of us, Jared races through the kitchen, speeding rapidly towards the rear exit.

"Freeze!" I yell, though I doubt he'll actually stop. Jared grabs a steel sauce-pot off a rack and hurls it at my head. I quickly duck, and the metal pot clammers harmlessly to the ground behind me. Without turning to see if he hit me, Jared continues to sprint through the kitchen, weaving in and out of stoves and counters, and streaks through the back door.

"Stay on him!" I command loudly to Agent Williams.

"I am!" she snaps back with another scowl.

We burst out the back door and follow Jared through a tight alley and onto a crowded street. Civilians soon swallow him up, and he is lost in a sea of innocent bystanders.

"Where the hell is he?" Agent Williams yells in frustration.

"Keep your eyes sharp!" I remind her. Remembering his distinctive brown hair, I search the crowd for a similar shade.

"There!" I yell, spotting him about thirty feet away. "Down by the street!"

"FBI!" Agent Williams shouts, shoving past several people. "Get out of the way!"

We sprint after him, hot on his trail. Sensing this, he desperately spins around and darts into the street.

"Geez!" I exclaim as horns blare. An SUB swerves right by Jared, nearly clipping him as it tries to get out of the way. Jared stumbles, but quickly pulls himself up and keeps running.

"I got him!" she calls, sprinting ahead... Right into the path of an oncoming city bus. I know the bus won't have time to stop, and pulling her back could cause us to lose the suspect. So I take my chances and tackle her forwards, throwing myself behind her and propelling her and I past the bus.

"Thanks for the assist," she exhales with genuine-looking gratuity. Up ahead of us, Jared is still running, desperately trying to lose us.

"I got this!" I announce, sprinting top-speed after him. I hop over the hood of an idling cab, get right on his heels, and tackle him into the curb.

"Gotcha!" I shout triumphantly, pinning him down beneath me.

"Aaaaagh!" he yowls with scowl fiercer than Agent Williams. "Damn, man! Get off me, pig!"

_Why am I always getting called 'pig'?_

With Jared still pinned beneath me, I reach into his pocket and extract a baggie of small white pills.

"I'm guessing these aren't prescription," I observe loudly. "What are they? Roofies? GHB? You secret weapon when it comes to knocking girls out at the club?"

"I'm not saying anything until I talk to my attorney!" he yells back defiantly.

Soon enough, uniformed officers arrive, hand-cuff jared, and take him down to the station.

"That was a pretty close call with that bus," I recall with a relieved sigh.

"Yeah, I... It was..." she replies.

I was expecting some form of a sardonic reply, so her discomposed expression and words took me by surprise.

"You doing all right, Special Agent?" I ask, legitimately concerned.

"I... I am," she replies after a slight stammer. "Thank you, Detective," she adds.

I nod with a slight smile. "Please," I insist, "Call me Mal."

She smiles appreciatively. "Alright, Mal. Call me Natara."

* * *

Natara and I stand back at the precinct, waiting to enter the interrogation room to speak with Jared. Suddenly, Captain Yeong pulls me aside.

"So, think the kid did it?" she asks. Though the evidence points towards it, something didn't feel right. My gut tells me otherwise, so I go with a non-committal reply.

"Could be," I answer. "Jared's connected to the victim, but we won't know if he killed her until we speak to him."

"Good to see you're not getting ahead of yourself, Detective," Captain Yeong mentions approvingly. "What about you, Agent Williams?" she asks, turning towards Natara. "What's your take?"

"He fits the standard serial killer profile. Mid-twenties, white, prior relationship with the victim. But he also works in a high-social profession. Serial killers tend to be detached and awkward around strangers."

"I doubt that'll be enough for a jury, Special Agent," she dismisses passively. Natara nods and looks away, slightly embarrassed. I catch her eye and flash her an encouraging smile, and she appreciatively smiles back.

Just then, Eric walks over.

"Detective, I've got that analysis of the drugs Jared was carrying," he divulges. "It's a morphine derivative called hydromorphone, or hydro."

"I know hydro," I mutter, recollecting numerous instances of college kids using it to get intoxicated. "It's popular with club kids who like a medicine cabinet high."

Eric nods in acknowledgement and continues. "Overdoses cause dizziness, light-headedness, blackouts..."

"So it could've been what the killer used to incapacitate Sophie?" Natara questions.

"We'll need the completed tox screen to know for certain, but it's certainly plausible," Eric confirms. "Then again," he continues in a lighter tone, "It's also possible that your suspect's just using them to get high."

Something still doesn't seem right, but I don't want to say it out loud. "Thanks, Eric," I say instead. "I think it's time we had our little chat with Jared."

I lead the way into the interrogation room, and Natara follows close behind. In the room, Jared and his lawyer are seated at the table in the center of the room.

"Hello, I'm Catherine Krutzik," the lawyer introduces. "I'll be handling Jared's case." Natara and I both nod. "You should know that I've advised my client not to speak," she adds.

"That's okay," I say calmly. "All he needs to do is listen. This is about murder."

"Murder?!" Jared bursts. "Why's he talking about murder?"

"Jared," Catherine mumbles quietly. "Let me handle this."

"But–" he starts.

"I _said_, stay quiet," she growls impatiently. She looks up at us. "Well, Officer, you've succeeded in unnerving my client. Now explain yourself."

_Ha! _

"My pleasure," I reply smugly. "Last night, Sophie Patterson went to the Zen Lounge. Six hours later, she was found dead. Jared, as far as we know, you're the last person who saw her alive."

"Wait, what?!" Jared exclaimed, eyes wide. "You're saying Sophie–"

"–Is dead," I finish. "And right now, the evidence isn't looking food for you. Last one to see her alive... Access to illegal drugs... Trust me, it'll be better if you start talking now." I pause. "What can you tell me about Sophie?"

"... Sophie?" Jared mumbles after a slight pause. His face turns somber, and tears well up in his eyes. "Sophie's just this girl, you know," he states sadly. "Cute, fun... We even hooked up a couple of times." He pauses again. "Mostly, though, she came to me when she wanted to party."

"And last night?" I inquire suspiciously.

"She found me," he relays. "I fixed her a drink, but that's it! I wouldn't sell her anything harder."

"Why not?" I press.

"Because she looked like she'd already been partying," Jared says, his expression hardening slightly. "Unsteady on her feet, you know? Last I saw, she was stumbling towards the rear exit, and then..." Yet again, he pauses.

_God, get on with it._

"And then?" I urge impatiently.

"And then nothing," he says blankly. "She was just gone. I figured she'd bailed."

I nod and glance at Natara, who had been scribbling notes down on a yellow legal pad. She looks up, nods, and we both stand and exit the interrogation room. Uniformed officers escort Jared back to the holding cells.

"Well, any luck verifying my client's alibi?" Catherine asks as she strides up to us.

"Yeah," Natara says reluctantly. "The club owner confirmed Jared was still mixing Mai Tais at Sophie's time of death."

"Very good," Catherine replies with a smug, patronizing smirk. "I want it noted that my client cooperated fully with your investigation." With that, she turns on her heels and strides away, heels clacking annoyingly on the precinct's tiled floor.

Captain Yeong soon walks up to us. "I think we've done all we can today, at least until the Medical Examiner comes back with a full autopsy report tomorrow."

"I have enough information to draw up a profile," Natara joins. "I'll have it ready by tomorrow morning."

"Go home and get some rest," Captain Yeong orders, seeming to ignore Natara. "I'll want you both alert tomorrow."

We both nod and thank her before walking out of the office. The night air is cold, and the sky is hidden behind thick clouds.

"Need a lift to your hotel?" I ask, remembering that she doesn't live in this city.

"It's not far," she answers. "I'll walk." I nod.

"You did well out there today, you know," I tell her encouragingly. "Even if we didn't get the right guy."

"You weren't bad yourself, Detec... Er... _Mal_," she corrects.

"You have a good night, Special Agent Williams," I say with a smile.

"You too," she smiles back. She walks off, and a moment later, Ken walks up to me.

"That your new Fed partner? She's one good-looking woman," Ken comments. I chuckle. "Think I'd have a shot with her?" he asks jokingly.

"As far as I can tell? She'd break you in half," I say.

Ken laughs. "You happy to be back on the force?" he asks, as if he doesn't know the answer.

"Yeah, I am," I say with a slight grin. "I just wish I'd come back under better circumstances," I add grimly.

"Well, I bet your wife's happy you're not lying around on the couch all day," Ken comments. "How's she doing, by the way? Things still good with you and Sandra?"

I feel that slight familiar heart-drop, but quickly try to conceal it. "Uh, yeah. Yeah. Couldn't be better."

_How is it that I am good at bluffing in poker, but I am a horrible liar at real-life issues?_

"All right, Mal," Ken dismisses like he doesn't quite believe me. "I'll catch you later. Don't be a stranger."

I nod, and we say good night. I drive back home and park my car on the street. I wearily climb the stairs and walk into my apartment. I step through the door and am immediately greeted by the familiar air of loneliness. The lights are off, and packed cardboard boxes labelled in Sharpie marker are everywhere, lining the walls and sitting in the middle of the floor.

_Damn. The light's still out. I really ought to fix that one of these days..._

I instinctively look across the room to where the phone sits. The red answering machine light is blinking, indicating an unheard voicemail. I walk over to the machine and press 'play'. A familiar voice fills the room, and that same dull ache finds its way to my chest again.

"Hey, Mal. It's, um... It's me. I wanted you to know that I'm going to come by at the end of the week to pick up the last of my stuff. I know you're not going to return this call, because you don't want to deal with this or anything else..." She pauses. It's a short pause, but it's painful. "Just don't make this difficult, okay? I'll leave my key when I'm done. Goodbye, Mal."

The machine beeps, signifying the end of Sandra's message. I sigh.

_Well, that's not what I needed to hear right now_.

I'm tired in more aspects than one, but for some reason, I don't feel like I can go to bed yet. So I resolve to watch TV instead. I walk over, flip it on, and fiddle with the remote.

"As we reported earlier," the news anchorman reports, "The serial killer known as _The Maskmaker_ has claimed a third, as yet unidentified, victim. Police Captain Maria Yeong has reportedly assigned controversial Detective Mal Fallon to lead the task force..."

_I'm 'controversial' now? That's a step up._

I sigh and flip off the TV. The weight of everything that happened today, along with everything that has happened in the past six months, comes crashing down, and I am suddenly exhausted.

_Talk about one hell of a day..._

I shove past another stack of boxes, open the bedroom door, and sprawl out onto the small bed, not even bothering to change clothes. Sleep doesn't come easily, but I finally fall into a light, restless slumber.


	3. Chapter 2: The Masks We Wear

**Hello. c: It's been a long while, I know, I know. School is finally almost over, so that means I will have a lot more time to write this summer. c: But yeah, here's Chapter two of the Maskmaker. c: Thank you so much for the reviews so far! Keep them coming. Enjoy! c:**

* * *

Natara Williams

After a somewhat-restless night of sleep, I awaken and resolve to work on my profile. I sit at the table in my hotel suite with my laptop in front of me, charger plugged into an outlet in the wall. The rays of early morning sunlight shine cheerily in through the open blinds.

_Let's see here... 'The majority of serial killers are Caucasian males, age twenty-to-thirty. They are highly intelligent. They also tend to come from unstable families where they endured severe emotional, physical, or sexual abuse.'..._

I am about to search for more when my phone vibrates against the table. I quickly read the screen, and my heart sinks a little.

_It's District Chief Blaire..._

"Hello, sir," I answer respectfully.

"Special Agent Williams," Chief Blaire greets in near-monotone. "How's the investigation going?"

"Well," I hesitate, "It's proceeding as expected."

"Oh?" he mutters quizzically. I try not to be offended that he clearly sounds surprised.

"I've prepared a preliminary psychological profile of the killer, and am cooperating with local police forces," I report.

"Good, good," he murmurs. "I appreciate your diligence."

"Thank you, sir," I say, struggling to keep my clear relief out of my voice.

"I shouldn't have to remind you that you are being watched very closely on this assignment, Agent Williams," he warns ominously. "_Very closely_."

"I... I know, sir," I stammer, biting my lip.

"After the Miami debacle, you're on extremely thin ice. Anything short of excellence will be unsatisfactory."

I wince and make sure my voice is steady before replying. "I understand," I say in a voice that is much more confident than how I feel. For just one second, I relive that moment from six months ago. The dank, claustrophobic apartment... The sweltering Miami sun... The sobbing of an infant... And above all, the report of pistols and howling shriek of pain...

Thankfully, the flashback leaves as fast as it came, but it still leaves me shaken. "Is... Is there any word on Agent Mallory's recovery?" I ask hopefully.

There is a long pause on the other line. "... He's in physical therapy," Chief Blaire reports grimly. "There are some good signs, but... They doubt he'll ever walk again."

Guilt stabs me in the chest, and I feel my breath catch in my throat. "... I have to go, sir," I say after steadying my voice again. I'm giving a briefing at the station in half an hour."

"You've got one shot at this, Special Agent Williams," Blaire warns again. "_Don't screw it up_."

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, I stride confidently into the police bullpen. Other police detectives work busily, hardly noticing me as I walk past.

Mal looks up as I walk to his desk. "Well, Special Agent," he greets, "Have you prepared a profile for us to follow?"

"As a matter of fact, I have," I tell him.

_... I say 'matter of fact' a lot, don't I?... Yep. Dammit._

"If you need any help presenting it," Mal offers, "Let me know. The guys here can be a little rough."

"I think I'll be fine," I say with a smile. "But thank you."

I turn to face the noisy room and clear my throat. "_Hey!_" I yell loudly, gaining the attention of the entire precinct. "Eyes front and center! Now!" The room suddenly goes quiet, and all eyes fall on me. I'm suddenly slightly uncomfortable, but I can't really turn back at this point.

"I've prepared a profile of the Maskmaker that should help you exclude suspects who don't meet the necessary criteria," I announce. "Based on my research, the age of the Maskmaker is most likely twenty-to-forty."

"That makes sense," Mal chimes. "The guy would need to be old enough to have refined his technique, but young enough to be physically intimidating."

"Exactly," I say, flashing Mal a grin.

I continue, "Next, we can expect the Maskmaker to be an introvert."

"Someone that precise and compulsive has _got _to be an introvert," Mal adds again. "I can't imagine him telling raunchy jokes at the water cooler." A few people laugh at this, including me.

"Exactly," I repeat with another smile. "Finally, we can expect the Maskmaker to be highly intelligent."

Mal pipes up again. "Exactly what I've been saying. If this guy were your average creep, he'd have slipped up already."

"Absolutely." I once again flash Mal a grateful smile, and he returns it. "The Maskmaker is methodical and disciplined, and given his access to pharmaceuticals, we can assume he was access to a hospital or clinic."

"Like a doctor?" Captain Yeong interjected questioningly.

"Could be," I answer. "Or a vet or an orderly."

"Okay, thanks, Agent Williams," Captain Yeong announces. "I'm sure this profile will be a big help. Everyone, back to work!" she orders. Everyone immediately turns back to their work.

"Not bad, Special Agent," Mal comments after Captain Yeong has walked away. "Then again, it was nothing my gut didn't already tell me..."

"Yeah, yeah," I laugh.

"Come on," he says. "Let's swing by the lab and see if the techs have found anything." I nod, and Mal leads me down a set of stairs and into a sophisticated-looking crime lab in the basement of the station. A man whom I recognize to be Eric, stands over a microscope and goes over a series of slides. He looks up when he hears us approach.

"Ah. Detective Fallon. Special Agent..." He pauses. "Well, actually, I'm not sure I caught your name."

_Ah, right. I guess I never told him formally..._

"Special Agent Williams," I tell him.

"That's right. Williams. Distinctly Anglo-Saxon... Welsh, if I'm not mistaken." He pauses again, looking at me with a slightly-cocked brow. "Surprising for someone of ostensibly _South-Asian_ _descent_..."

I try to hide the surprised-and-slightly-creeped-out expression on my face. "Uh..."

"Let's skip the genealogy lesson," Mal interjects, seeming to sense my discomfort. "Eric, did you find anything in Sophie's autopsy?"

"Bruising on her lungs and throat suggest mechanical asphyxiation," he reports confidently. "Your death-by-mask theory certainly looks solid."

"Did you identify what she was drugged with?" I ask.

"Excellent question, but no," he continues. "Whatever compound the killer used was out of her system by the time we found her."

"I was afraid you'd say that," I sigh.

He concludes in an almost-apologetic voice. "I can tell it was a paralytic, hospital grade. But beyond that, I've got nothing."

Suddenly, an excited squeal from the other side of the room startles me. I turn and see a perky, young woman seated in front of a row of desktop computers.

"Mal! Mal!" she squeals excitedly, waving him over. "I've got something!" I follow Mal across the room to where we stop in front of the woman.

"Special Agent Williams," Mal introduces, "Meet our technical analyst and data specialist, Amy Chen. Amy, meet our FBI liaison, Natara Williams." She extends a hand and I shake it politely.

"Oh! Hi! Nice to meet you!" she chirps cheerfully. "You're really pretty!"

"Thank you," I say with a smile, chuckling slightly at her upbeat demeanor.

_She's quite the lively one_.

"Now then, what did you find?" Mal lightly prods. Amy points to one of the monitors. On it is a compilation of several complex images being overlaid for comparison.

"We ran ammonium acetate and cross-acid absorption tests and discovered trace iron impurities in the quartz!" she declares in the same chipper voice.

_And a damn genius, too. _

Though I'm fairly intelligent myself, I have absolutely no concept of what she just said.

"Uh... what? I'm sorry," I apologize, "But I have no idea what you just said."

"That makes two of us!" Mal adds, clearly confused.

"Oh. Sorry," Amy continues, settling down a little. "What I meant to say was that I ran a chemical analysis on the plaster in the masks and found trace iron impurities in the quartz."

_Still have no idea._

"Uh... Okay," Mal mumbles, still clearly grasping it about as well as I am. "So?"

"So this particular composition indicates that the plaster was imported from Southern Europe," Amy spews like it's the most elementary concept in the world. "Tuscany, if I'm not mistaken..."

She turns to the keyboard and her fingers fly across the keys at an incredible speed. Images and text flash across the monitor faster than I can keep up with.

_Good Lord._

"Now we just bring up regional shipping manifests... Cross-reference them against local art supply specialty stores... And voila! There's only one business in the greater San Francisco area that imports its plaster directly from Southern Europe. It's called _Italia Imports and Exports_, and it's located down by the waterfront," Amy tells us informatively. "And get this... According to their website, they also deal in exotic masks."

Mal, Eric, and I lean over the monitor.

"Well done, Amy," Eric praises with a rare smile.

Mal turns to me. "Let's roll."

Mal and I exit the precinct and he drives me down to the lines of shops near the waterfront.

"Your technician is quite the character," I comment, amused.

"Eric?" he asks. "Yeah, he can be pretty aloof... But he's damn smart."

"I was actually talking about Amy," I correct. "You don't see many people that chipper in our line of work. It's refreshing."

"Yeah, Amy's one of a kind," Mal laughs. "She's a technical genius, you know. There's no one out there that can work imaging and analysis software the way she can. As far as I know, she grew up in a pretty sheltered home, and hasn't had a ton of real-world experience. I think it helps her keep her distance. That, and rarely leaving the lab. You and I look at murder victims and see husbands, wives, children... She only sees the puzzle."

I nod, thinking about what Mal just said. "Hey," I suddenly say, recognizing the name on the front of a building. "I think we're here."

Mal parks the car beside the curb and gets out. I follow suit, and we now both stand before a shabby-looking building.

"This is it, _Italia Imports and Exports_," he states, looking up at the worn-out sign.

"That's not your typical mall storefront, is it?" I observe, more to myself than Mal. "Can't imagine it gets many customers..."

"Me, I prefer buying my creepy death-masks online," he jokes. I laugh and we exchange a brief smile. "Come on, let's go in."

Mal and I step into the building. My eyes immediately struggle to adjust from the bright San Francisco sun, to the dim lighting of the old shop. Shelves lined with all kinds of exotic-looking masks snake around the store. I glance up and am slightly startled by the carved, wooden face with a straw mane staring down at me with blank eyes.

"Well, that's creepy," I comment to myself.

"It was _meant_ to be," a crabby-sounding voice calls from behind me. Mal and I turn to see a tall, lanky man stride over to us. "That's an Iroquois False Face mask. Tribal shamans used masks like that one to frighten off evil spirits."

"Interesting," I lie. "And you are...?"

"Hello," he greets. "My name is Boggs. Lance Boggs. Tell me, miss, are you a fellow mask aficionado? If so, you've come to the right place."

"Actually, I'm Special Agent Williams of the FBI," I correct, "And this is Detective Fallon."

"That's... Unexpected," he mumbles, suddenly looking uncomfortable. "I take it this house call is in regards to the Maskmaker killings?" I carefully watch him as he shifts uncomfortably and eyes the rear exit.

"And why would you think that?" Mal asks, taking a slight step forward and staring him down suspiciously.

"It, uh, hardly takes a genius to put two and two together, Detective," he stammers shiftily. "The Bureau wouldn't waste an agent on just any crime, and I do happen to share the Maskmaker's distinctive obsession."

"Mr. Boggs," Mal continues impatiently, growing increasingly suspicious. "We're here because the Maskmaker is using plaster acquired from _your _business to murder innocent women. We need to take a look at your records."

"I'm afraid that would be a waste of your time, Detective," he replies with a scowl. "I run a _cash-only_ such, our records are rather... Incomplete." He eyes the back exit once again, and I watch Mal move slightly as to better block his way.

"Gotcha. You don't want cops like me knowing about the black market antiques that move through this dump," Mal mutters sarcastically.

"I assume you have evidence to back up that accusation, Officer, or do I need to call my attorney?" he demands, sounds offended.

"Go ahead!" Mal continues, unfazed. "Make the call. We'll see who–"

"Detective, take it easy," I warn with a frown.

"But–" he starts. I cut him off.

I quickly excuse us. "One moment please, Mr. Boggs."

I drag Mal outside the shop.

"What are you doing?" Mal exclaims. "That creep is lying to us. I can feel it."

"I agree," I affirm, "But he's not going to cooperate with us if you keep badgering him, and we definitely don't have enough to book him." I pause and glance through the dusty window at Lance Boggs. "But I think if we play along with him, we can get him to talk."

"And what makes you so sure about that?" Mal asks, somewhat-sarcastically.

"Because Lance Boggs is an unprincipled narcissist with an innate compulsion to impress those around him," I state.

"Okay," Mal says slowly, "And that means...?"

I sigh. "It means he'll talk to me if I push the right buttons."

"You've got ten minutes," he gives in. "I'll be listening in through the window. And be careful... He might not look like much, but he could be dangerous."

I nod. "I will." I turn and once again enter the warehouse. Lance steps up behind me, holding a box cutter. The blade glints in the sunlight, and I am immediately wary.

"You again," he mutters in disgust. "What do you want?"

"I just wanted to apologize for my partner," I say earnestly. "He can be a little uncouth."

"Uncouth. Boorish. Impertinent," he mutters, "He sickens me."

I have to bite my lip to suppress a laugh as my mind races for a reply.

_If I make it sound intellectual, he might listen to me._

"It's like Aristotle wrote: 'Those who render justice through force instead render all justice unjust.'"

"Ah!" he exclaims, clearly impressed. "An educated woman!"

_Ha! Good thing he's clearly not an Aristotle expert; I pulled that out of nowhere._

He steps closer to me, and the box cutter glints in the light again.

"Please, my dear," he starts with a seemingly new-found respect. "Allow me to show you something." He leans over and slices open a nearby box to reveal three masks surrounded by bubble wrap.

"Those are very impressive pieces," I say, hoping I sound like I actually care.

"Oh, really? Any piece in particular?"

I peer into the open box and see the three pieces: a black demon mask sporting horns and an evil-looking grin, a white plaster mask of a young woman's face, and a wooden mask with a human figure on top. My gaze drifts back to the plaster mask.

"Yes, I like the female mask," I say, trying to hide the rising suspicion in my voice.

"Oh, you like the Linconnue de la Seine?" he asks.

I nod.

_White plaster... Mask of a woman's face... A name that roughly translates into 'the unknown of the Seine River'..._

"Good choice," he continues. "I must confess, it's a favorite of mine, as well. The original was created by a pathologist at the Paris Morgue in the laste 1880's. He was so taken by the beauty of a drowned girl that he preserved the image of her face in plaster."

My suspicions continue to rise, but I push them down again. "Plaster mask," I observe out loud, "Body in the water. Kind of sounds like the Maskmaker, doesn't it?"

"Oh, you're right!" he confirms. "Only in Sophie's case, the mask was made first, and then her body was dumped overboard."

_Wait... what?_

"Did ou just say 'Sophie'?" I ask, eyes narrowing slightly.

"Well, yes," he says in confusion. "The third victim... Is there something wrong?"

"Only that we deliberately kept Sophie's name out of the press," I scowl, now allowing my suspicion to show.

His calm facade falters. "Oh, heh," he mutters uncomfortably, "I'm sure I must've read it somewhere... Because I... I..." He stumbles for words, then gives up and turns to run. Instead of making it to the door, though, he bumps right into Mal. Mal slams Mr. Boggs against a nearby shelf, rattling the masks on it.

"Lance Boggs, you are under arrest for the murder of Sophie Patterson, Chanelle Pomeroy–" he begins, but he's cut off.

"_No!_ Wait! Wait!" Lance protests. "I'm _not_ the Maskmaker! I've just been talking to him!"

"What?!" Mal exclaims incredulously.

"Please, allow me to explain," he begs. "Follow me."

Warily, Mal slowly lets Boggs go and we follow him into the back. Boggs then opens up a laptop, revealing an instant messaging window.

"This morning," he begins, clicking open one of the chats, "I received an instant message from an individual claiming to be the Maskmaker. He offered to sell me an 'original work'."

Mal and I step closer and we scan the chat log.

"Here it is," Mal says. "Whoever this is, he listed all three victims by name. Nobody but police should know that information."

"So this really could be our guy?" I ask hopefully.

"Yeah, could be," he confirms, clearly relieved. "Boggs, does this person emailing you have any idea what you look like?"

"I... I don't think so," he stammers. "Please, you have to believe me. I never would've made the purchase."

"That's too bad," Mal says, "Because you're about to." Mal shoves past Boggs and leans over the keyboard, beginning to type a reply.

"Wait," I interrupt. "You... You're actually going to try to buy the mask?"

"Exactly," he confirms again. "When the Maskmaker comes to deliver the merchandise, we'll be there to take him down. You got a problem with that?"

"No," I say, "I just think you should negotiate the price."

"This could be our only shot a catching this guy," Mal exclaims. "You really think we should be bargaining with him?"

"Absolutely," I say sternly. "You're pretending to be Lance Boggs, remember? He may love masks, but he's also a shrewd businessman. He'd try for the best deal he can get."

"She's right, you know," Lance backs up. "I always lowball my opening bid."

"Yeah, okay, that makes sense," Mal complies reluctantly. "Good thinking," he adds, sounding slightly surprised.

_Ouch_.

"I'll try to pretend you didn't sound surprised," I mutter.

Mal ignores me, cutting the offer in half and then pressing 'send'.

"Now let's see what happens next," he murmurs.

Sure enough, another message pops up, revealing an address in Portola. "Hey! It worked!" I exclaim.

"Yeah, but it looks like he's only given us fifteen minutes to get there," Mal says, hastily turning towards me. "We better get moving."

Fifteen minutes later, Mal steers his unmarked police vehicle into a vacant lot. "A little exposed, aren't we?" I comment.

"Guy probably wanted it that way. Wanted to scope us out before he made the exchange. By the way," he adds, "I loved your little performance back there. You usually beef up on Aristotle before shaking down suspects?"

I laugh. "Actually, I made that quote up ont he spot. I haven't read Aristotle since high school."

"Who reads Aristotle in high school?" Mal asks, also laughing.

"Smart nerdy girls with crushes on their Honors English teachers," I reply with a sheepish grin. "Now can we get back to the– Hey, look! I bet that's our guy!" I motion to a black sedan with tinted windows approaching us. It pulls into the lot we're in, slows to an idle stop, and flashes its lights twice."

"That's my cue," Mal comments, unclicking his seatbelt and grabbing an empty briefcase. He exits the car and holds up the briefcase. I get out as well and switch to the driver's seat, just in case we need to go quickly.

"I brought the money, just like you said," he lies, starting towards the sedan.

The black sedan idles for a moment longer.

_Why isn't he getting out?_

Then suddenly its springs to life, revs its engine, and guns it forward, nearly clipping Mal.

"Quick!" I yell through the open door. "Get in!" He runs to the vehicle, slides into the passenger's seat, buckles, and commands, "Drive, Natara! _Drive! _He's getting away!"

I slam on the gas and tear off after the sleek, black sedan. Mal reaches over and flips on the siren. Both of our vehicles streak down the tight, busy streets of San Francisco. A bright yellow taxi swerves out of my way just in time, and I breathe a light sigh of relief.

"Stay on him!" Mal yells again. "Stay on him!"

_Shut up!_

"I am!" I yell back, frustrated.

Ahead of us, the sedan takes a sharp turn and spins onto a narrow street, barely swinging by a dump truck backing out. As I rapidly approach it, I realize that the truck driver doesn't see me, and it continues backing out. I think about gunning it to try to get past, but if I'm not fast enough, colliding with a huge dump truck won't really help us catch this guy any faster. Instead, I deftly swerve around it, swinging the car out of its way.

"Good!" Mal shouts approvingly. "Stay on him!"

Still ahead, the sedan careens out of the alley we were in and out onto a crowded street. It swerves recklessly in and out of lanes, veering wildly in between cars.

"The guy can drive, I'll give him that," I mutter. The vehicle ahead makes a hard left, flying through a red light. A city bus brakes to avoid hitting it, and collides instead with an SUV.

_Dammit._

"He's on a one-way street!" Mal shouts. "I know a shortcut that'll cut him off! Take the _next left_!"

_No way, we'll lose track of him!_

"But we'll lose him!" I protest, quickly approaching the one-way the sedan flew into.

"Trust me!" he says firmly.

_Trust you? I just met him yesterday! How am I supposed to trust him? He does know the streets better, though... Ah, screw it!_

"All right!" I give in, "I trust you!"

I zoom past the streetlight and take the next left onto a tight downhill street.

"We got this, we got this," Mal mutters to himself, "Just take a left... Then a right... Then take another left at Dan Dan Dim Sum!"

_Dan Dan Dim Sum... Dan Dan Dim Sum... Din Dan Dam Sun?... Din Dan Dammit!_

I make a sharp left followed by a right, then prepare to make another left on what I hope is the correct street. I spot _Dan Dan Dim Sum_, a fancy-looking Chinese restaurant,and swerve left outside of it, finding myself right behind the black sedan.

"Perfect!" Mal acclaims. I slam down on the gas again and speed up right behind the sedan.

Finally caught up to him, I let out a frustrated huff. "I got you, you reckless sack of–"

"Here we go..." Mal comments, bracing himself as I floor the gas pedal and accelerate. I pull up alongside the other vehicle, then dart ahead, cutting him off. The sedan slams on his brakes an veers to the side, plowing straight into a lamppost. The windshield instantly shatters, the the surrounding proximity fills with the smell of burning rubber.

"Got him!" Mal cries triumphantly. "Good driving, Natara!"

For once, he actually seems genuinely impressed instead of surprised I can function.

"No problem!" I say with a smile, hopping out of the car. Mal is close behind me as we simultaneously draw our guns, cautiously walking towards the wrecked sedan. Even from twenty feet away, I can see the bloodied driver fumbling with the door.

"Don't move!" I warn, pointing my gun in his direction. I easily throw open the sedan's door, and the driver looks up at me. Clumsily, he reaches into his coat pocket and starts fishing around. My instinct is to shoot, though I know that won't do any good, and would probably leave me without a job.

"Hey!" I yell, "Keep your hands where I can see them, or I will splatter your head across that backseat! _Now!_"

"Whoa! _Whoa!_" he huffs in weary fear. "I'm just... Just getting... My ID..."

His hand falls weakly to the side, and his driver's license drops into the road. With my gun still trained on him, Mal bends to pick it up.

"Ah hell," he mutters with a disgusted scowl. "I thought I recognized this guy."

"You do?" I inquire in surprise.

"Yeah," he replies. "Marvin Clemente. Real scumbag. Used to be a cop. He workd Narcotics until he got booted from the force three years ago for taking bribes. Rumor has it he was supporting a gambling addiction."

No wonder he took off so fast.

"And I'm guessing he recognized you, too, and that's why he fled the scene."

Mal says nothing, but storms up to the car, forcefully pulls Marvin up, and slaps a pair of cuffs over his wrists.

"Marvin Clemente," I announce, "You're under arrest for the murders of Chanelle Pomeroy, Kirsty Barnett, and Sophie Patterson!"

"Murder..." he mutters weakly. "I didn't... Murder nobody..."

_Nice grammar._

"You swore an oath to serve and protect, you bastard!" Mal bursts suddenly, fierce anger boiling in his blue eyes. "What the hell is wrong with you?!" With that, he grabs Marvin by the collar of his shirt and roughly slams him back against the frame of the car.

"Mal!" I chastise. "Leave him alone! He's already injured! The last thing we need is a police brutality charge." I reach out and pull Mal back with a hard yank. He takes a deep breath and steps away.

"You..." he starts, anger quickly fading. "You're right. I'm sorry." I nod dismissively. "It's just... There's nothing that pisses me off more than a crooked cop."

"I see," I say cooly. "It strikes a nerve, then?"

"Let's just say it hits close to home," he confesses after a slight pause. "Now come on. Let's get this piece of crap down to the station."

* * *

A few hours later, I am on the phone with my District Chief, Chief Blaire.

"Good work this morning, Agent Williams," he praises. "I heard you successfully apprehended your suspect."

"Yes, sir," I somberly reply.

"This will go over well at your review." _Phew_. "Do you believe Clemente is really the Maskmaker?"

"Well," I begin, slightly uncertain. "It's too early to say. He's in the hospital right now with four broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, and a concussion. And they've got him too doped up on painkillers for interrogation."

Just then, Mal walks over and gestures for me to hang up. The look on his face worries me.

"Uh, I have to go, sir," I say lamely. "Something's come up. I'll call you back."

"Alright," is all he says. I hang up my phone and turn to Mal.

"What's going on?" I ask anxiously.

"Marvin's not our guy," he states with a frown.

"What?" I exclaim. "What are you talking about?"

"As soon as the word came in that he was a suspect, a secretary in Evidence Control called our unit and confessed to being his girlfriend. It turns out the two of them were running quite the little racket. She fed him information about the Maskmaker case–"

"–And he made replica masks," I finish. "That's just perverse," I add in disgust.

"There's a huge market for murderbilia, souvenirs used in real crimes... Dahmer's drill, Gacy's clown mask, the Unabomber's typewriter... You'd be amazed what these things go for online. We're taking hundreds of thousands of dollars."

"So Clemente's not guilty, just a common hustler trying to pass off replica masks as the real thing," I say, heart sinking.

"My heart breaks for him," Mal mutters sarcastically. "Listen. We know Boggs didn't keep books, but he did log the names of repeat buyers in his computer. It's a long shot, but we might find a connection there. You should swing by the lab. Eric wanted to get your DNA on file," he adds.

"What for?" I ask.

"Standard procedure. You're going to be all over these crime scenes, and they need a way to screen you out."

"Oh," I say sheepishly, feeling dumb. "Right. I'll head down there. Good luck with the files."

Mal nods and we turn opposite directions. Upon reaching the lab, I notice only the hum of the fluorescent lights and Amy examining some sediment samples.

"Hey," I greet, causing her to glance up at me. "Is Eric around? I need to have my DNA input into your system..."

"He's down at the morgue, actually," she answers, "Going over the autopsy report... But I can do that for you!" she finishes eagerly.

I nod and quickly settle down in a chair across from Amy. She briefly swabs the inside of my mouth with a Q-tip and begins to process the sample.

"Thanks, Amy," I say with a smile. "I hope it's not an imposition..."

"Are you kidding?" she laughs. "I don't mind at all! Do you know how rarely I get to talk to another girl down here?"

I laugh. "I can imagine. For what it's worth, you're doing a great job. A couple mor leads like that, and we'll nail this guy."

"Thanks," Amy responds with an appreciative smile, "But... You know, I really can't take too much credit. It _was _Eric's idea..."

The way she lingered on Eric's name makes me suspect something... more, feelings-wise, between them. She looks away sadly for a brief moment.

"Can I... Um... Ask you a personal question?"

Slightly taken-aback, I respond, "Sure, I suppose."

"Have you ever been... Interested in one of your colleagues?" she questions with the same sad expression on her face. "You know... Romantically?"

"Oh, don't tell me," I begin. "You're interested in Eric."

"You... How did you know?" she exclaims in surprise. "Am I really that obvious?"

"I'm a profiler," I dismiss with a laugh. "This is what I do."

"So... Have you ever been involved with a colleague?" she presses.

I can feel my mind wanting to flash back to that fateful day, but I push it away, focusing on the present. "... Yes," I answer after a pause. "Once. It didn't end well."

"Did you guys break up?" she asks.

"Something like that," I say, my voice instinctively softening. "He was shot."

"Oh!" she exclaims in surprise, clearly feeling bad for bringing it up. "I'm... I'm sorry!"

"It's okay," I dismiss with a small half-smile. "I've... Come to terms with it," I lie. "The truth is, we're in a high-stress line of work. Blending that with romance can be risky."

"I know, I know," she murmurs, sounding distressed. "It's just... Eric and I spent a lot of time in the lab together, and... I know he can seem prickly, but he does have a really sweet side. Sometimes, when we talk, it seems like he's almost ready to open up to me... But I worry about taking that step. What do you think I should do?"

"It's not really my place to say..." I admit after an awkward hesitation.

"Oh. Right. Sure," Amy stumbles, cheeks turning slightly red. "Sorry I asked."

"It's okay," I reassure with a smile. Suddenly, Amy's tech equipment beeps.

"There! Done! Now you're in our system!" she announces, back to her cheerful-self.

"Thank you, Amy!" I turn and start to walk away when Amy stands up. I expect her to say something more about Eric, but she doesn't. What I see instead is a sad, scared expression on her face.

"You're... You're going to stop this guy, right? Before he kills another girl?"

"I hope so, Amy," I reply with a sad smile. "I hope so."

* * *

Brittany Emerson

I stand barefoot on the shore of East Beach. The sky is a dark navy blue, and if I look closely, I can see millions of shining stars. The sand is cool between my toes, and a large, bright bonfire rages in front of me, warming up the cool night air. A large group of other high schoolers surround it.

Suddenly, I hear a familiar voice call my name from behind me. "Brittany!" I whirl around to face my best friend, Mona Patel.

"I didn't think you were going to show!" she exclaims, giving me a side-hug. "This party is _awesome_!"

"Well, I totally shouldn't have," I admit, feeling a small twinge of guilt for lying to my parents. "If my parents knew I was out here, they would _flip_. It's bad enough that I'm out at a party... But with the whole Maskmaker thing going on, they're completely on edge..."

I suddenly feel a firm hand grasp my shoulder, and I nearly jump out of my skin.

"Hey, Brittany!" exclaims a green-haired Greg Chapman. "You talking about the Maskmaker? Don't worry about him. If that sick piece of crap comes by here, my boys and I will take care of him." He mock-punches the air several times, standing in a jumpy fighting-stance.

I laugh. "Now grab a cup!" he tells me. "Drinks are in the cooler." With that, he runs off.

"Okay," Mona whispers once Greg is gone, "Admit it. He is _ridiculously_ hot."

"He's not really my type," I laugh, shrugging it off.

"And what _is _your type?" she asks. "A science textbook and a late-night studying?"

_Oh, well... ouch?_

"I just like a guy I can have an actual conversation with," I dismiss. "And not about his six-pack abs."

"Yeah, well, I'm gonna go have a great conversation _with _his six-pack abs..." she mumbles dreamily.

I suddenly feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. I pull it out to reveal a text from my little sister.

_'Mom wants to know where u r...'_

"Oh, shoot," I mutter. "I have to take this. Be right back!" Mona nods and I walk away from the noise of the party towards some isolated bushes towards the end of the beach. I dial my home phone number, and after a couple rings, my mother's voice resounds from the other line.

"Brittany? Sweetie?" she calls. "Where are you?"

_Shoot. What do I say?_

"Uh... I'm..." I pause. "I'm sleeping over at Mona's house."

"You... You didn't mention that to me..." she finally says. "You know how I feel about that girl..."

"I promise we're not getting into trouble. We just need to finish this project for computer class," I lie. I feel guilty again, but I push the feeling away.

"Well... If it's for school... I suppose it's okay," she replies reluctantly.

"It's fine, Mom," I reassure. "I promise. I love you."

"Love you too, sweetie," she says. "Be safe."

I say 'okay' and hang up.

_Phew!_

I turn and take a step to return to the party, when suddenly, two firm hands grab me and jerk me back into the bushes. A rough, gloved hand clamps over my mouth, and another presses down on my throat, making me struggle for air.

"Don't scream," a masked man warns. "Don't. Scream."

_Like _hell _I'm not going to scream._

"Mmmmmm!" I shriek through his gloved hand. I feel the hand around my throat tighten, and I choke for air.

"I said _don't scream_!" he hisses in a hushed tone. I struggle to free myself, desperately trying to push upwards and away from the man.

"Mmmmmm!" I shriek again. I kick him in the shin, but he doesn't flinch. He jerks my head up and slams it down hard into the rocky dirt.

"I don't want to hurt you," he whispers smoothly. "You're just... You're too beautiful."

_What the hell? _

I thrust my knee up into the man's gut, once again trying to break free.

"Uff!" he huffs, recoiling slightly. I try to roll out from under him, but he twists himself around and leans all his weight on my chest. I exhale sharply and struggle again for breath. Jerking up, I shove the man aside and stagger to my feet. I lunge forward and am just about out of the bushes, when the man grabs me again and pulls me back. My head slams hard against the ground again, and I see stars dancing dizzily around me.

_Ugh..._

I gasp for air as the man reaches for something in his coat, and then towards my throat. I feel the prick of a syringe, the pressure of an injection, and the stinging of whatever substance was inside the thing, entering my body. I almost instantly go numb.

"Hhhhh..." I moan, fighting to speak. The man kneels down beside me and runs his hand gently along my face. In disgust, I try to move it out of the way, but to no avail.

"You look just like _her_... _Just _like her..." he mumbles under his breath.

I struggle to move, but it's no use; my limbs are dead weight.

"So beautiful... And so disgusting... A stain..." he continues. "You might be the one, you know. You might be the one."

I helplessly stare up at his blank, cold mask.

"I just need to see your true face," he finishes with a menacing snarl.

He pulls a scalpel, palette knife, and a small bucket of plaster from his coat. He methodically uncaps the plaster and dips his palette knife into it. To my absolute horror, he begins plastering over my face, starting with my mouth and continuing on with the rest. I again desperately try to struggle, but my attempts are in vain. My limbs are useless, and I can't even speak, let alone scream for help.

As my lungs burn for air and my vision starts to dim around the edges, I realize I won't be going home tonight, or ever. I feel terrible for lying to my parents, and especially for making my little sister cover for me.

_I wish I could say that I'm sorry... That I love them... And I wish I could tell them goodbye..._

But I can't; It's too late now.

My lungs are searing in pain, and I know I can't hang on much longer.

With my last few moments of life, I think my last.

_I'm sorry, mom, dad, and NAME. I'm so sorry... I love you... And... Goodbye._

My vision fades to black, and I allow myself to fall into painless oblivion.


	4. Chapter 3: Bad Medicine

**Aye! If you haven't noticed, I sort of suck at updating stories. ._. That's what I get for having more than one active story. Oops.**

**Anyways, here is chapter three (Bad Medicine) of my Maskmaker re-write! **

**Enjoy, and please let me know what you think! c:**

* * *

Mal Fallon

Natara and I step out onto the cold, sandy shores of East Beach. Part-way down the shore, a small group of police officers huddle around the pale corpse of yet another female victim, slumped against a rock. Even from my distance away, I can clearly see her bright red hair and featureless plaster mask that covers her face.

_Damn..._

The girl couldn't have been any older than seventeen, if that. "She's just a kid..." I murmur sadly.

"It just breaks your heart," Captain Maria Yeong says grievously, a sad look on her face. "A girl like that with her whole life ahead of her..." She trails off for a moment, and then her gaze hardens. "You bring this guy in, Detective Fallon."

"Your captain seems unusually agitated," Natara comments after Captain Yeong storms away.

"Yeah, well, it's getting personal," I tell her. "Captain Yeong has a daughter about the same age." My mind flashes to a vague memory of Captain's daughter, Annie, with the same, distinctive red hair. "You do your best to separate your home life from work, but... Sometimes you can't create enough distance."

"Speaking from experience?" she inquires.

_Damn profilers._

I involuntarily find myself fiddling with my wedding band. "Forget it," I mutter with a slight frown. "We've got work to do."

She nods and we approach the body, kneeling by the girl's side.

"The victim's dry," Natara notes. "Based on the way her blood's setting, I'm guessing she was placed here last night." She pauses to take a brief cursory look at the body. "Clothes are ripped. Defensive wounds on her hands and forearms. Definitely signs of a struggle. And I see a small injection mark at the base of her neck. Generally, this seems consistent with the previous murders..."

"No," I interject, quickly thinking back. "There's something different. The other victims weren't placed."

"You're right," she realizes after a moment. "The other girls were dumped in the water and then drifted ashore... But this one is completely dry. She was killed on land."

"Exactly," I affirm. "The question is _why_."

"Because the Maskmaker didn't have time to fully ritualize this kill," she says. "For some reason, he acted on _impulse_."

Realization dawns on me. "He took a shortcut. And when people take shortcuts, they get _sloppy_. The Maskmaker might have just made his first mistake."

"Mal," comes a voice from behind me, interrupting my thoughts. I turn slightly to see Officer William Rye approach me. "ID on the vic just came back positive. Name is Brittany Emerson. Here's her home address. Captain wanted you and Agent William to talk to the family."

"Thanks," I say. "We're on it."

* * *

A little while later, Natara and I approach a large two-story home. Several police cars are already parked outside of it. Captain Yeong is waiting for us, leaning against one of the cars. She straightens up as we approach.

"Got anything?" I ask.

"According to her family, Brittany Emerson was sleeping over at a friend's house. She never came home."

I nod. "We'll talk to the family and see if we can get anything." I turn to walk up to the door, when Natara lightly grabs my arm.

"Mal, these people just suffered the most devastating news of their lives," she warns. "They're likely consumed by grief, if not in shock."

"I've talked to grieving victims before, Natara," I say, slightly annoyed. "What's your point?"

"I'm just saying," she states, "We should be careful and really think about what we say. I don't think we'll have much time to chat."

I nod, then approach the door where a tall, heavy-set man is leaning against the door frame. I assume this is Brittany's father.

"Hello, sir," I greet with a friendly nod. "I'm Detective Mal Fallon with the SFPD, and this is Special Agent Williams of the FBI. We'd like to talk to you about your daughter."

"Oh, uh, of course," he says shakily. "Of course. I'm... I'm Brittany's father. Please... Just come in."

Natara and I step through the door and inside the house. From the next room, I can hear the steady sobbing of a woman.

"I apologize for the state of the place," he says gravely. "We've been... I mean, first we were worried because Brittany didn't come home, and now... Now..."

"It's okay, Mr. Emerson," I say gently. "We'll find who did this."

"I know you will, Detective, and I appreciate your effort. I just..." He pauses, slumping down on the couch in defeat. "Is that going to bring my daughter back? Is that going to let me see her again and tell her I love her?"

"Unfortunately, that's something no one can do," I say despondently. My voice hardens as I continue, "But we can make sure that the person who did this to her dies behind prison walls."

"... Then we'll help however we can," he states in a stronger voice, fresh determination in his stern gaze.

"Mr. Emerson," Natara says, gaining his attention. "If you don't mind, we'd like to ask you and your family a few questions."

"Of course," he complies. "We'll do anything we can to help with the investigation. Anna, my other daughter, is upstairs, and Margaret, my wife, is in the next room. You can speak with them if you'd like."

_Natara was right. The family is really upset. I'll probably only have time to talk to one of them._

"We'd like to speak with your daughter, please," I say.

He seems a bit caught off-guard. "Well, if... If you think she'll be helpful..."

"I do," I say confidently. Mr. Emerson leads us up a staircase and to the open door of a teenage girl's room. He nods at us before retreating back downstairs. Natara and I walk through the door and into the small, pink-painted bedroom. Anna, Brittany's sister, sits on her bed, hugging a pillow to her chest and sniffling quietly. She looks to be about twelve or thirteen.

She glances up when she notices us walk in.

"Hi there, Anna," I greet with a warm smile, trying to keep the professional edge out of my voice for now. "My name is Mal, and this is Natara. We're here to ask you some questions about your sister."

"Didn't... Didn't you talk to my parents?" she asks unsteadily, wiping her eyes with her shirt sleeve. "I don't know anything they don't..."

_I'm no profiler, but something in her eyes tells me she's lying..._

"Well," I begin, "we think you might." She looks up at me, slightly bewildered. "In my experience, kids don't always tell their parents what they're up to. But they _do _tell their brothers and sisters."

"... So?" she sniffs.

I cross the room and take a seat on the bed next to Anna. Natara walks across the room, too, and leans against the desk by her bed.

"Now, she starts, "According to your mother, Brittany went to her friend's house to work on a class assignment. Is that true?"

"Uh, it... I promised Brittany I wouldn't tell," she admits quietly.

"Whatever it is, Anna, we _need _to know. You can trust us," I add.

She seems to debate with herself for a moment before giving in. "... All right. I'll tell you. It was a stupid promise, anyway." She pauses again before continuing. "She... She wasn't working on her computer class project last night. That's just something she told Mom and Dad."

"Then where was she, Anna?" Natara presses gently.

"She was... At this party. On East Beach."

"East Beach..." I murmur, suddenly realizing something. "That's where we found her!"

"It's not a dump site," Natara realizes. "It's a _crime scene_!"

"Did... Did I say something wrong?" Anna asks, seemingly startled at our sudden outburst.

"No, sweetie," Natara says gently, flashing a reassuring smile. "You did real well."

"Thanks for letting us talk with you," I say as I rise from the bed. Anna just nods as we both flash her another smile, then exit the room and rush outside. Captain Yeong is still there, talking with a few officers.

"Captain!" I exclaim as Natara and I rush up to her. "You're going to want to hear this!"

"According to Brittany's sister, the class project she'd been working on was a lie cooked up to cover what she was really doing... Hanging out at a _beach bonfire party_. The beach where the party happened... East Beach. Same place the body was found."

"So we know where she was taken," Captain affirms. "Good work, both of you. I'll dispatch Crime Scene Unit back there right away!"

* * *

Amy Chen

A few hours after Mal and Natara return, Eric and I stand over the charred remains of a bonfire on a deserted northern stretch of East Beach. Litter is strewn all around, cluttering the sands and floating in the water.

I frown in disgust. "I hate being out in the field..."

"Hate it or not, we need every technician we can out here," Eric states. He looks around and a look of loathing crosses his face. "Empty beer bottles, red plastic cups, and one stray bikini top... This does appear to be the site of a high school party." He shakes his head angrily. "A bunch of drunken, half-clothed idiots staggering around a giant fire... I'm surprised _any _of them made it home alive."

"You didn't go to a lot of parties in high school, did you?" I assume, trying to hide my slight amusement.

"No," he states bluntly. "Not at all. I cared far more about getting into a top-tier university than being Housewarming King."

I barely suppress a laugh at this. "I'm pretty sure that's 'Homecoming King'," I correct.

"Semantics," he dismisses. "Now then, Detective Fallon and Agent Williams think the girl was taken from near this bonfire..."

"That doesn't make sense," I interject. "The kids here were mostly sophomores in high school, right? And Natara said our killer was at least twenty years old... Probably older? So how did he get close to them without being spotted? These kids might have been drunk, but I'm sure they would have noticed him..."

"I'll admit, that's an intriguing notion, Amy, but we're interested in cold, hard facts," he says, his frown hardening. "Nothing else. Leave the speculation to the detectives, and stick to gathering evidence."

"... Right," I mutter, slightly dejected. "That means picking up all of these bottles and cups and swabbing them for DNA, huh?"

"Don't sounds so glum!" he exclaims. "If even one of them matches someone in our database, we'll have a lead!"

I sigh, head to the far side of the circle, and begin to bag bottles as I let my thoughts drift.

_That's so sad. One minute this girl was calling her parents to tell them she'd be home soon... And the next, she was being horribly murdered..._

I continue bagging bottles and cups, trying not to spill beer all over myself.

_Wait a minute... If she called her parents and they didn't hear the party... Then she had to have walked away from the bonfire!_

I look around, surveying my surroundings. About thirty feet from the site of the fire, near the base of an overhanging cliff at the beach's end, I can make out a thick cluster of bushes.

_There! That's where _I'd_ sneak off to!_

I glance back up to the bonfire. Finding Eric still distracted, I wander over to the bushes.

_Let's just see what we've got... _

I sift through the slightly-prickly bushes.

_Some broken branches... An imprint in the dirt... A scrap of a girl's shirt... _

I look closer at the scrap of cloth.

_Oh my god... That's blood! _This _is the sport! This is where she was taken!_

I immediately call Eric over. "Eric!" I shout. "Come here now! I found something!" Eric runs over to my side.

"What?!" he exclaims, looking annoyed. "What is so– ... Oh. Oh my."

"She was kidnapped from here, Eric. From _right _here." I kneel down and carefully extract a fragment of a small, glass cylinder. "It's a vial! This must be from the drugs the Maskmaker used!"

"This is... Excellent work, Amy," he commends.

"You mean that?" I ask, slightly surprised. He nearly never says anything positive towards me. Or in general.

"I do," he says sincerely, a hint of a smile on his face.

"... Thanks," I say. Our eyes meet briefly, but he looks away.

"Now let's get this down to the lab at once! We need to know what was in that vial and where it came from!"

* * *

Mal Fallon

I drive along the waterfront, tightly gripping the wheel. Natara sits in the passenger's seat.

"Where are we headed?" she asks quizzically.

"I just got word from Amy down at the lab," I say, relaying the information I was just given. "They've identified the compound used to drug the girls. It's succinycholine, a powerful neuromuscular blocker–"

"–Used commonly in emergency surgery," she finishes. "So we're definitely looking for a medical professional..."

_Why the hell do we keep finishing each other's sentences?_

"Not just any doctor," I say. "Eric was able to get a batch number off the vial. It matches some pharmaceuticals we confiscated a few years ago from a Dr. Christian Rose."

"Why was it confiscated?" she asks.

"Dr. Rose was running an unlicensed plastic surgery practice," I state, "Offering cut-rate cosmetic enhancements to women desperate enough to go to him. He flew under the radar until he botched a face-lift while blitzed on painkillers. The girl was completely disfigured. The prosecutor bungled the case, and the bastard got off with just ninety days in prison."

"My god," Natara mutters in astonishment. "He fits the profile perfectly."

"I don't think he's the killer," I admit without thinking.

"What could possibly make you say that?" she asks with a scowl. "He's a perfect fit! He's medically trained, intelligent, and I'm guessing he's physically fit... Not to mention he's got the motivation. An alterer of women's faces suffers a traumatic incident that leaves him fundamentally unstable..."

"Yeah, sure, it adds up on paper," I admit, "But he strikes me as your average felon: greedy, irrational, and self-destructive. I don't think he has the discipline or the focus to be the Maskmaker."

"Well," she sighs, "I hope you're wrong... Because I think we're _this _close to cracking the case. Are we driving to his house?"

"No, we'll let the uniforms handle that. We're heading to his other property, an abandoned warehouse down by the piers. It's where he performed his illegal surgeries."

"Come on!" she exclaims suddenly in exasperation. "He owns a creepy warehouse by the water, and you _still _don't think he's our guy?"

"Trust the gut, Natara," I state simply. She rolls her eyes as I swerve onto a back-road in a run-down waterfront neighborhood.

"Well, if I _were _a serial killer who needed a hideout, it would definitely be around here..."

"You know," I start, "this neighborhood didn't used to be so bad. When I was a little kid, my dad used to take me down here to fly kites on the beach, and grab some pizza afterwards. Of course, Old Sal's pizza place got shut down years ago. It's probably a crack-house at this point..."

"Are you and your father close?" she asks, interrupting my thoughts of the past.

"We were," I say.

"But not anymore?" she continues.

"Well, given that he's serving thirty-five-to-life for corruption, racketeering, and extortion," I snap, "No, we're not exactly flying kites these days."

"I... I'm sorry," she stammers awkwardly. "I didn't realize."

"Don't worry about it," I dismiss, looking away. I shouldn't have snapped; she had no way of knowing. "We're here."

I pull up outside the warehouse. A muscle car is parked outside.

"Mal, look at this," Natara calls once we've stepped out. She lightly runs her hand over the side of the car, pointing out several prominent holes.

"Bullet holes..." she states. "... And blood."

Suddenly, a scream comes from inside the warehouse. "Quick!" I urge. "Move!"

Natara and I simultaneously draw our guns and rush to the door. I step in closer and can make out the sounds of mumbling and the light clanking of metal.

_What the hell is going on here?!_

I glance over at Natara and press a finger to my lips. She nods. I crouch down low and peek through a crack in the old wooden door. Natara crouches beside me, leans over, an whispers, "What do you see?"

"I've got multiple people," I report in a low whisper. "Someone's lying on his back in the middle of the room, and someone's standing over him. There's movement in the back, too... Maybe one, two more people..."

I'm nearly cut off by another loud howl of pain. "We're going in!" I announce, jumping up and readying my gun. Natara steps back and I wind up and kick the door in. The old door flies off its rusty hinges as Natara and I rush in, finding ourselves in a makeshift operating room full of medical supplies. A shirtless man lies on his back on one of the rusty tables, and two muscular men stand near the back of the room, guns trained on Natara and I.

"S-F-P-D!" I yell. "Freeze!"

"What the hell is this?" Christian Rose exclaims with a scowl. "What's going on here?!"

"Put down your guns," a bodyguard barked, glaring at us menacingly. "_Now_!"

"Do it!" adds the other guard.

Ignoring their demands, we keep our guns pointed squarely at the two guards.

"Let's just take it easy," I say, trying to reason with them. "No one has to get hurt here..."

"I have a feeling, Detective," sneers Rose disdainfully, "that it won't be that simply."

The man lying on the table moans in pain.

"You pigs," he seethes. "Know what my family... Will do to you?"

"Mal," Natara says in a low voice. "That's Miguel Flores. Ranking officer and scion of the Flores drug cartel."

My stomach sinks. "Ah, hell. So you're a mob doctor now, Rose? Stitching up cartel foot-soldiers?"

"Since that sham malpractice case, I've had to make a living somehow," he spits back. "Now if you don't mind, I'd like to operate here."

I exchange an uneasy glance with Natara. The bodyguards we're still aiming at adjust their grips on their guns, and Dr. Rose slowly turns back to Miguel, resuming examination of his wound.

"Back away, pigs," Miguel threatened. "If you value your lives."

"We just want to talk," I continue calmly.

"I ain't talking... With you..." he mutters through clenched teeth.

"Not you, Miguel," I nearly spit. "We want to talk to Dr. Rose."

"Me?" he exclaims incredulously. "You want to talk to me?"

"Bull," Miguel seethes. "They're playing you, doc. The moment you get outta the line of fire... They're gonna haul me off. Keep working."

Rose glances up at the bodyguards, then continues working.

"Miguel, just tell your men to put down their guns," Natara continues firmly. "We'll get you to a hospital..."

"I ain't going to... No hospital!" he howls. Miguel turns his head and angrily barks something to one of his guards in Spanish. The guard steps forward.

"Hey!" Natara shouts, adjusting the grip on her firearm. "_Hey_! Back off!"

"Last chance," Miguel warns. "Put the guns down."

I shift my gun to point at Miguel. "Tell your men to back off, Miguel, or I will put a hole in you," I warn with a deep scowl.

"Oh ho," he chortles with a smirk, "big talk, little man. You do that... And you and your little girlfriend are next."

_Not my girlfriend!_

"Yeah, probably," I shrug. "But you'll be too dead to appreciate it."

Miguel, for once, is silent.

"Just let us take the doctor. That's all we want."

"It's not going to happen," Rose interjects. "I'm not going back to prison."

"Who said anything about prison?" I question. "We just want to talk."

Rose continues his examination, digging deep into Miguel's shoulder for the bullet. Miguel yells loudly in pain.

"Oh, really?" Rose continues, as if he wasn't digging into a man's shoulder. "And what precisely do you want to 'talk about', anyway? What trumped up charge justifies bringing an FBI agent along?" he asks, motioning towards Natara.

"It's about the Maskmaker case," I answer firmly.

"The... Maskmaker case?" he questions hesitantly.

"The dude that's been killing all those girls?" Miguel suddenly spouts. "Is that you, doc?"

"You... You think _I'm_ the Maskmaker?" he laughs in disbelief. "That's what this is about?! Oh, that's just ridiculous. The idiocy of this city's police department knows no bounds."

"Then you'll come with us to answer some questions?" I pry, starting to sense an opening.

Dr. Rose responds by jerking the tweezers from Miguel's shoulder, then dropping a bloody bullet into a tin tray.

"Uggggggh!" he roars, sweat pouring down his face. "Damn!"

"There," Rose says with satisfaction. "That's the bullet. Anyone with even a little medical training can stitch you up from here."

"You leaving?" Miguel asks him.

"I'm going to go with them to get this absurd little mess cleared up," he scoffs.

"We'll take the doctor and leave," I promise. "Then you and your men can go."

Rose stands and sets down his tools.

"I'm just going to over to them very slowly," Rose murmurs in a quiet tone. "Understand?"

"I got it, doc!" Flores says. "I understand... Understand _this_!"

Miguel whips his hand out from behind his back, revealing a chromed semi-automatic pistol pointing straight at me.

Thinking quickly, I pull the trigger of my gun. _Blam!_ The loud sound of gunfire blasts throughout the room, and a bright red circle appears in the center of Miguel's forehead. His head snaps back, and fresh blood spatters Dr. Rose.

"_No!_" Rose exclaims loudly as Miguel's body flops off the table, knocking him over. He falls to the ground, buying Natara and I time to hurl ourselves behind a wooden cabinet.

"Geez!" the first bodyguard yells. "He killed Miguel!"

"Shoot him!" howls the other guard. "_Now!_"

The rickety room erupts into complete chaos. Both bodyguards open fire, their shots whizzing audibly past our cover spot. Natara blindly fires off one shot, misses, and then throws herself forward from behind our cover. She makes a break for it, then quickly flips over an operating table to use as cover.

"Natara!" I call once I see her dive behind the table, narrowly missing a bullet being embedded into her skull. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine!" she calls back over the roar of gunfire.

I peek around the corner of the cabinet and see both bodyguards crouching behind cover on the opposite side of the room. Dr. Rose scampers away, retreating into the darkness.

"Get back here, Rose!" I warn angrily. The bodyguards begin open fire again, and the side of the cabinet about six inches from my head bursts apart, spraying me with wooden splinters. I quickly pull myself back, heart pounding.

"You're a dead man!" the second bodyguard yells as more bullets explode against the cabinet. A chunk of the top explodes into wooden fragments, and I scramble to stay low.

"I'm pinned down here!" I call to Natara.

"What do you want me to do about it?" she snaps back.

I'm about to answer when I hear an engine revving outside.

"Dammit," Natara yells, "it's Rose! He's getting away!"

"We can't get him without risking ourselves!" I shout back. "Stay down!"

I glance out the door and watch as Rose's car revs to life, then zooms away.

"Damn," I mutter to myself.

"Mal!" Natara calls. "Listen!"

I stop and listen. I had been so busy watching Rose, that I hadn't noticed the sudden silence.

"You two ready to surrender?!" I call, though I know it's probably useless.

No reply. I hear soft, padding footsteps, and the sound of someone fumbling with a glass bottle.

"You smell... Rubbing alcohol?" Natara asks, worry in her eyes.

I vaguely hear the sound of crumpling cloth, and then a lighter flicking on.

"They're making a Molotov cocktail!" I suddenly exclaim.

"We have to shoot!" Natara exclaims urgently. "Now!"

I nod, then quickly duck low underneath the bottom of the cabinet, gaining a clear look at the bodyguard's shoes.

"Hey!" I shout challengingly. "You!" I fire off a single shot, aiming at the bodyguard's foot. His shoe bursts open, spraying blood everywhere. He screams and falls, dropping the Molotov cocktail on himself. It engulfs him in flame as he writhes on the floor.

"That leaves just the one," I say, more to myself than Natara. I hesitantly pop over the side of the cabinet, but see no sign of the second guard. I slowly stand and walk towards the other side of the room.

"Come out with your hands up!" I shout to the void. "No one has to get hurt!"

Suddenly, I hear Natara's voice from behind me.

" M-Mal..."

I whirl around. The second bodyguard stands behind Natara, one arm grabbing locked firmly around her neck, and the other pressing his gun under her chin. He peers over Natara at me, using her as a human shield. I line up my shot, though I'm not certain I can shoot him without clipping Natara, too. I glance at her, meeting her gaze. He just stares back, a hint of fear trembling in her usual state of composure.

"Put down your gun!" he commands. "Put it down, _now_!"

"Okay, okay," I say calmly. "Just let her go." I slowly and reluctantly lower my gun to the ground, then kick it to the side.

"Good boy," scoffs the bodyguard. "Good... _Boy_!"

The guard lifts his gun to fire at me, but is stopped suddenly when Natara grabs his arm, jerks him down, and elbows him hard in the side of the head.

"Ufff!" the guard grumbles before collapsing to the cement, unconscious.

"Natara!" I call once he's down. "You good?"

"I'm good," she answers firmly.

We both stand facing each other, breathing hard. The room is eerily silent.

"... We just killed Miguel Flores," I breathed in disbelief.

"Yes. Yes, we did," Natara replies.

A few minutes later, we both stand outside. Police cars with flashing lights are parked all around the building, and the the warehouse is swarmed over with officers. I walk over to the edge of the lot, where Natara is finishing up a phone call.

"Yes, sir," she says to someone on the phone. "Yes. I'll have the full write-up to you by tomorrow morning. Goodbye, sir."

"Doing okay?" I ask as she hangs up the phone.

"Yeah," she answers, sounding tired. "A little shaken, but yeah. I just can't believe we made it out of that without getting a scratch on us!"

"We got lucky," I say. "That's all. You ever been in a shootout before?"

Her composure falters slightly. "... Once," she says in a quieter voice. "It didn't go so well."

A cold breeze washes over us both. I shiver involuntarily.

"You in trouble with your chief?" I ask, changing the subject.

"Are you kidding?" she asks. "Miguel Flroes was a drug-runner and rapist who we suspect of at least sixteen gangland murders. I might just get a medal out of this," she adds with a laugh.

"Catch Dr. Rose," I say, "and you might get two."

Natara exhales deeply. "Mal... I don't think he's the Maskmaker," she confesses quietly. "The way he acted in there, the way he reacted to us? He didn't suggest someone with a deep psychosis."

I sigh, too, scowling slightly. "Yeah, I had a feeling you'd say that."

* * *

Back at the precinct, Natara and I report to Captain Yeong.

"And I'm telling you," she continues, "I don't want to hear it, Detective. Miguel Flores is dead, Dr. Rose escaped, and now you're telling me he might not be the Maskmaker?"

"It's a theory," I reply, choosing my words carefully.

"I appreciate that you're working on a theory, Detective," she credits.

"Thanks," I say.

"But what facts do you have to support it? All the _evidence_ you've collected points to Dr. Rose. He even matches the profile Agent Williams developed."

"Yes, but–" Natara starts with a frown. Captain cuts her off.

"I don't want to hear it, Agent Williams," Yeong interjects with a scowl at her. "Unless and until you two can _prove _otherwise, Dr. Rose remains our prime suspect."

"Listen to me," I start, starting to get impatient and desperate.

"No," she says firmly, now turning to scowl at me. "_You _listen to _me_. Thanks to you, I've got one cartel officer in the morgue, one in the burn ward, and a third with a broken jaw..."

"It was a righteous shoot!" I protest, beginning to get angry.

"I know," she replies coolly, "and that's the only reason you're not on suspension pending review. I pulled every string and cashed every favor I had with the Commissioner to keep you both on, at least until Dr. Rose is brought to justice."

I sigh. I'm frustrated, but I'm grateful. "... Thank you," I finally say.

"Don't let it get to your head," she warns. "You're my best detective, and our prime suspect is still at large. Find him. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a press conference to prepare for."

Natara and I turn and step out of the Captain's office. The door slams shut hard behind us.

Natara sighs. "Well, that could've gone better," she says meekly.

"There's a television in the break room," I say. "We can watch the press conference from there."

She nods, and I lead her back to the break room. We stand and watch at the television news broadcast.

"She shouldn't be doing this," I can't help but mutter. "Not yet."

"We did everything we could," Natara offers.

"I know," I sigh, "but still..."

Suddenly, the door to the break room swings open, and Ken strolls in.

"Well, well, well," he greets. "If it isn't Wyatt Earp himself. Heard you had yourself one heck of a shootout."

"It was something all right," I agree.

"Popping Miguel Flores... ID-ing the Maskmaker... Bet the Captain's glad she put you back on the force!"

I say nothing, briefly looking away.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Ken asks, noticing my silence.

"We don't think Rose is the killer," I admit quietly.

"What?" he exclaims in disbelief. "You're kidding me. The guy's guilty as sin!"

"I don't know, Ken," I continue. "It's not as simple as that..."

"You're gonna have to fill me in some time," he concludes.

Before I can come up with something to reply, Natara says, "Quiet, you two. The press conference is about to begin."

We all turn towards the television as Captain Yeong addresses a crowd of eager reporters.

"Thank you all for coming," she greets. "As many of you know, there's been a break in the Maskmaker investigation. We now have a primary suspect: this man, Dr. Christian Rose. For the moment, Dr. Rose remains at large, but we hope the citizens of San Francisco will cooperate in our attempts to bring him to justice."

"Every cop in this city is going to be stuck looking for Dr. Rose," I worry out loud.

"That's not good," Natara says with a frown.

"No," I reply. "No, it's not."


End file.
